Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Karl was stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel. Nothing could compare with this feeling of utter and helpless claustrophobia. Just a mile or so long and underground, but with the traffic, it may as well have been the Hadron Collider, and he Karl, an invisible higgs-boson particle...

Time to hunt.

Dan spat up a sip of his s**t coffee and filled the rest of the Styrofoam cup with whiskey. Better. He sat there, idling his Dodge Intrepid, and staring at the Macy's sign on 7th Avenue. He was waiting for that *******, Phil the Thrill, who worked for Mr. Celophane, who in turn, no doubt needed Dan to kill someone new.

Time to hunt.

Eddy giggled despite himself. He was on a roof, somewhere in the theater district. He stared at an antennae that resembled Christ on the cross. Somewhere nearby was "Larry", who had it out for Eddy, and couldn't forgive Eddy's latest escape from incarceration. Larry the Lizard stalked his old pal. Eddy looked out upon the glittering, shiny city..

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

The old Ford pickup pulls into the lot in front of the motel, engine running hot after two days straight driving. Arkansas plates tell anyone who cares to look another sucker’s found his way to the Rotten Apple. Before the engine goes silent, the rats begin sniffing the air, eager for a fix, or a few bucks, or the simple fun to be had in sticking a stranger who wanders into the wrong territory. The door opens and he steps out. The rats all freeze. The dust and dirt and Arkansas plates all promised one thing, but he ain’t here to deliver. Sure, he’s dressed in denim and checkered flannel, like you’d expect. Sure, he looks a bit old, a bit grizzled, a bit country. But his eyes... He’s tall, maybe 6’3” or so. Lean, lanky. For all he looks a bit old and grizzled, he also looks fit. Not fit for a man his age fit, but fit. The faded denim and checkered flannel don’t hide the lean strength. The dark hair, cut short, severe, like that old drill sergeant in every movie you’ve ever seen. And his eyes. Those eyes... You’d expect cowboy boots. Most days you’d be right. But he ain’t here to line dance, or walk the back forty. The Marine Corps Issue Combat Boots waited in a closet for near twenty years, taken out once every six months or so for a polish. But now they’re ready to work again. He’s ready to work again, back to what he always did best. They can see it. He’s ready. Whatever the rats might want to dish, he’s ready from the soles of those boots all the way up to his eyes. Those eyes... If this were a movie, someone’d be stupid enough to approach a man like this while the audience laughs voyeuristically at the fate of an extra with one line. If this were a movie, there’d be a need to show the hero a bit by way of violent exposition. But this ain’t a movie, and he ain’t a hero. Hell, this ain’t no place for heroes. More importantly, something the movies never seem to remember or care about, the rats... Rats have finely honed instincts. Instinct which helps them seek out their prey. Instincts which warn them when something bigger and badder is near. The rats see the man, and they see a fellow predator; no, a super predator, one for whom rats are prey. They can see it in his eyes. Those eyes... It ain’t the blue. They’re actually pretty nice for lookin’ at, most days. It ain’t the squint, hard and closed off against the garish neon glare of the motel sign. It’s death, plain and simple. Death in his calloused hands, and in the way he carries himself, the way he moves. But especially his eyes. He ain’t a hero. This man brought death with him.

Karl drops the case and the old duffel on the bed, looking around at the decrepit motel room. Torn, faded wallpaper, stained carpet, stained sheets; hell, stained everything. He shrugs. He’s slept in worse. At least this place has walls and a roof. And anonymity. It’s been a long drive, but Karl can’t rest yet. He sits up on the bed and opens the case, removing his Bravo. He examines every inch, every piece, checking to make sure everything is in order, same as he’s done a thousand times. Ten Thousand. Twenty, maybe more. Once, sometimes twice a day since he was old enough to pick one up. The difference between life and death is in the smallest sign of wear, the least imperfection, no matter what a man is hunting. As he examines his weapon, he thinks. He goes over what he knows, and what he figures from that, planning his approach. When he’s done, he reaches into his duffel and removes the box holding his old Colt. The venerable model 1911A, semi auto, sidearm of choice among Marines for decades. The Corps switched over to M9s years ago, but Karl kept his old Colt. He examines it as thoroughly as the rifle, then places it under his pillow. The rats ain’t likely to bother him. But Karl ain’t a betting man. Karl sets the case to the side of the bed, and lays down. He closes his eyes, and thinks of Katie. Part of him worries, but most of him knows worry don’t help none. He’ll need to be fresh when it’s time to hunt.

THEN

“It ain’t like that, Katie.” Karl’s voice is soft. He rarely speaks louder than he has to, and he rarely has to speak loud. But there’s a pleading to his voice as he looks at his daughter. Kathryn “Katie” Hathaway glares up at the man she’s called father for nearly seventeen years. She trembles, eyes burning, rage barely contained. In spite of the anger, she’s grown into quite the beauty, like her Ma. But now she looks at him with... betrayal in her eyes. Karl can’t blame her. “Isn’t like that, daddy?!” Katie shouts up at him. She’s barely five-foot-four, a foot shorter than her daddy. It just means the rage is that much more compressed. “Isn’t like that? You killed my mom!” “Dammit, girl!” Karl’s voice rises, not quite to a yell. Then he sighs and throws up his hands. Godd**n FOI, he thinks to himself. And why weren’t that bit classified anyhow? He looks down at Katie, at a loss for words. Karl closes his eyes and takes a breath before continuing. “If you read that, then you read the rest. Your momma... they knew she was my guide. They told her, she didn’t kill me, they’d kill you. Hell, if I’d known when she pulled the knife, I might’ve let her. But then she was lyin’ there, an’ I asked her why, an’ she told me about you.” Karl closes his eyes again. Seventeen years since that night and it was still fresh in his mind. Willie Caine, best spotter he’d ever served with, bleedin’ out - tactical miscalculation on her part, going for Willie first; Karl taking a blade in the gut, shredding his intestines; and his guide, laying there, gasping her last, shot through the heart. Karl never missed. Never. “I asked her why, an’ she told me it was to keep you safe. So I did the only thing left to do, Katie. I promised her you’d be safe.” “I wish she’d killed you!” Katie’s voice has turned cold, and she turns and walks away, slamming her bedroom door. Karl sighs, and sits heavily. “Me too,” he says softly to the empty living room.

NOW

Karl’s eyes snap open, instantly alert. He sighs. Another painful memory, the day he lost his daughter. She never forgave him; Karl was never sure she should. He killed a lot of people. Never felt bad about any of ‘em. ‘Cept that one. Karl glances at the clock. It’s time. He sits up. Katie moved out the moment she turned eighteen, changed her name, back to her Vietnamese name, Khanh Phuong. Karl still paid for her college, sent money, made sure she had everything she needed. Katie accepted it, like he owed her, but that’s about it. They’d spoken a few times, but it was never the same, and Karl never knew how to make it right. Twenty five years and it still feels like another knife in the gut. Karl heads to the sink to splash cold water on his face. Twenty five years. But none of that matters now. Katie’s in trouble. It’s time to hunt.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

As he stood there, his hand nervously handled his blade, fingers tracing the outline of the crucifix he had carved into its handle. Chicken bone, inlaid with chicken bone. Not much available inside. That he had it at all was a continuing Sign for him.

“Chosen”

He had little else - everything else he had traded for the blow his plan had needed.

It worked, and now he had no idea what to do now of course, all that mattered then was to getting out of that hive of Devils and Sodomites. He was out. His fate now was with him and his Lord.

He stepped toward the fire-escape to climb back down. Temptations began to call to his mind and he reached for a non-existent package of cigarettes. That too was gone, as were his matches.

How he didn't end up in solitary this last time escaped him - his Lord surely must have had great things in mind for him, but Lord knows that plan was not clear to him. The world was a mess of Sinners and Devils.

Where should he start?

With that, his began to climb down the stairs, their cold metal bringing him back into the world of man.

He remembered a hostel a few blocks from here. He knew of few of the regulars there - weaklings, drinkers of Satan’s piss, but they owed him favours.

Donovan checked his cheap digital watch again. "Sonuva&^%$@," he mumbled. It wasn't like he had all day and nothing better to do.

Well, actually he did. Still.

He turned the heat up, all the good it did in the POS car. The strong smell of oil and diesel exhaust hit him hard. Filter must be bad. He shut off the heat and zipped his coat tighter.

The diesel smell wasn't going anywhere. Donovan pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it with a Bic he found laying in the floor. It was a cheap off-brand that tasted terrible, but at least it did something to block the stench of the city and his crappy car.

Donovan checked his glove compartment. The gun was still there, a Colt Detective Special that had been in service longer than he was, but like him it still worked well enough. Cylinder was still full, a half-empty box of .38s ready and waiting next to it.

He didn't like this bit so much, the shooting and the blood and the screaming when you weren't careful, but it did pay the bills.

Closing the glove compartment, he checked his watch again. "Where are you, you b*stard?" he muttered around the cigarette.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

He had been shot at before, though the last time it was rock salt from some godless hippy’s shotgun. The quality of the weed was excellent, and fortunately the hippy’s marksmanship less so.

His assailant was a better shot. He needed to get away, so the obvious choice was into the establishment of perverts. He dove through the shattered glass, over the implements of the sodomites and sinners and headed for the back of the store. The clerk was screaming, and Eddy snatched up a whip from a display and took cover behind a display cabinet. Whoever was after him would expect him to come out the back. Eddy had no intention of doing what they expected.

“Girl, call the cops - there’s a terrist’ outside.”

That should bring em in a hurry he thought. Might make it difficult to get away, but it would make things difficult for the shooter too.

He was being ticketed by a traffic cop douche bag, who stood there punching in the citation on his handheld with unabashed glee, taking his time and enjoying every second.

Dan was about to sling a few choice words at the button-punching ferret, when a knock on the passenger-door window interrupted him. It was another member of the weasel family. Breathing steam and grinning was Phil the Thrill. He pulled at the door handle and slithered inside Dan's car.

Phil the Thrill was once a cop as well, long time ago, now he was a drug addict, runner and middle-man for Mr. Celophane, one of the city's vilest villains. An underground crime-boss, for whom Dan occasionally free-lanced.

"Have a new contract for you", Phil whined as he wiped frozen snot from his rat-like face. The mob runner's breath smelled of cabbage and tobacco.

At that moment, Dan's police band radio, went live with static and fast talking. Dan still had some friends, though few, in the force. The scanner device was a parting gift from one of them.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Dan turned down the radio down so it was barely audible and looked at Phil, waiting. "Well?" he said after a moment, spreading his hands. Phil looked expectantly at the radio then back at him. "I don't need that sh*t," he answered the unasked question. "Terrorist? Homeland Security can clean that up." Dan crumpled up the parking ticket and threw it in the back seat. "Unless Celophane's paying to round up Al-Qaida, it's not my problem."

Donovan sniffed the air and grimaced. "You're sweating more than usual. What's the problem?"

Karl stared at the mirror above the sink. An Old man stared back. OneShot.

He paid for the s**tty room in the s**tty midtown motel with cash. Fit right in with the other "customers", mostly pimps, johns, and hookers. The room for a few nights cost him less than the parking garage had charged him for his truck.

@!#$ing New York.

Karl didn't care. He was mentally trying to get to Dead Zero.

Dead Zero in sniper and precision shooting usage refers to the desirable state of affairs where after several trial shots (called "Ranging Shots") the horizontal cross-hair in the optical reticle have been adjusted for the distance and elevation of the target, and the vertical cross-hair has been adjusted for windage, and so the crossing of the two in the field of view of the shooter corresponds to the anticipated point of impact. The cross-hairs meet.

That's where Karl needed to get to, where he wanted to be. Dead Zero. But he was nowhere close to that. Didn't even have a target for the ranging shots. Had no clue really.

He was alone and unafraid, but had no idea how to begin searching for Katie. Kept coming back to the phone call, or The Phone Call, as he now referred to it internally.

Pretty quick call too, minus the chit-chat, from some ******* with a gravelly voice. "Your little **** of a daughter is in a whole lotta trouble, Mr. Hathaway. Better get to New York City if you want to see her alive again. *Click*"

So he drove, and now he was here. Time to hunt, but no target in his sights.

He picked up the phone and made a call. FBI's office, Federal Plaza. Knew a guy there, Teddy Best. Owed Karl a favor from way back. A receptionist told him Teddy wasn't available. Karl left his cell phone number for a call-back.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

NOW In the darkness of the unlit room, Karl eases aside the drapes to look outside and see if the sirens mean it's time to move. The sound of sirens here is common, but something about these... the number... something tickles Karl's brain. Karl know to pay attention when that happens.Maybe a quick recon, he decides. A sliver of sunlight strikes reaches into the room and strikes the sleeping form of the hooker, who makes a little whimpering noise. Karl looks back at her and smiles...

THEN "Oh! Oh! Oh God! Oh my God, baby, you're the best!" Karl looks up from going over his kit. Sitting on his bed, filing her nails, the hooker shouts and moans like a pro. "Easy, there, girl. I'm an old man. Don't oversell it." She looks at him and smiles. This old man paid her $500 to sit here and scream for half an hour. "You look like you know your business pretty well, old man. Well, I know mine too. This is how we do it." Then she shrieks out in simulated pleasure. "Later on I'll tell 'em you couldn't get your tiny dick all the way hard, but right now I'm supposed to be makin' you think you're Don Juan. 'Sides," she adds with a wink, "you ain't so old." She considers the man as she lets out a moan, just loud enough to be heard through the walls. "Except your eyes. You have old eyes." Karl chuckles at that. He knew he'd found the right one the moment he saw her. "Why me?" she asks him. "Dozen girls out there, all younger, prettier. You want to be really convincing, you'd go for one of them." Karl looks at her a moment. "You're d**n sure pretty enough." Karl's tone makes it a statement of fact rather than a compliment. "If you know enough to ask, you already know the answer. You're older, sure, but you ain't old. You got shrewd eyes. Clear eyes. You got enough meat on ya I can tell you ain't no junkie. And..." Karl trails off. "Go on, old man." "Stretch marks," he nods toward her midsection. She covers up, suddenly self-conscious, but Karl smiles. "Them other girls only got habits to feed. You got a kid." She smiles at that. She didn't ask him why he wanted other people to think he was banging a hooker. Not her business. It's enough he paid her well over the going rate for her cooperation. "What is all that, anyway?" she says, looking at Karl's kit. Karl holds up the ratty clothes he got from the second hand shop on the drive up. "Camouflage." "Camouflage," she echoes. "Just like me." Karl smiles. Yup. Shrewd. "I thought guys like you wore suits with leaves on 'em. I saw it on TV." "Diff'rent jungle," Karl grunts. "Diff'rent Camo." The woman nods. Then she moans, ending in a shuddering cry as she shouts, "Oh baby, you're so good!" Karl finishes prepping his kit, and looks up at the hooker. "I figure I'm the sort of old man who pays for a night and then falls asleep fast, if you wanna get some shut-eye. I'll sleep in the chair."

NOW "You wanna make even more money?" The hooker looks at the old man, already dressed in his thrift store duds. She takes a quick inventory and realizes the man was true to his word. She slept the night away, unmolested. Now, at his offer, she considers him warily. "Depends," she says warily. "Don't worry. Nothin' like that. Just wondered... you got a car nearby?" She nods. "It's a piece of s**t. Barely runs." Karl nods back. "Perfect. I got $2000 cash, and the slip for my truck, parked in a garage a few blocks from here, for your car keys. You takea cab own and leave the truck off the streets a couple days, and it's all yours." She eyes him. Two grand is a lot of money, even without the truck. Certainly more than her old piece of s**t car. "Mister, just what is it you're into?" "That ain't a question you wanna hear the answer to, miss." The hooker smiles, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "It's not often anyone calls me miss. You got a deal." She reaches into her purse and tosses him her keys. "She's two blocks up, tavern parking lot. Owner lets me park there when I work down here. She leaks oils like a sieve, but I got most of a case in the trunk. Was gonna get her fixed next month. I got a guy who takes the work in trade if I can pay for parts." Karl nods, dropping twenty hundreds on the bed along with the keys to his truck. "Truck's a gas hog. I were you, I'd trade it in in a couple weeks for something more economical." Karl sticks his Colt in the back of his pants, making sure he can reach it easy. If the gun surprises the hooker, she doesn't show it. "Lock up when you leave," Karl says, then he slips out to see what all the fuss is about.

"Sweating?! I pissed an ice slushy on the way here, trust me I ain't sweating, Bloodhound."

Dan knew sweat when he smelled it however. He was the d**n Bloodhound for a reason.

"Mind if we drive a few blocks first? We're out in the open here. Hang a left next block, head for 9th. Quieter there."

There was something off with Phil today. Seemed less chatty, more jumpy.

"Oh yeah, almost forgot", he lied, "Here's your 8 Gs for that last thing. Phil stuck a rat-claw hand inside his stained parka and produced a crinkly brown paper baggie. Grinned again, "You don't want to count it right here in front of all the Macy's shoppers do you? Let's roll."

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

The girl behind the counter looked pretty shook up. She didn't move a muscle, gaping at the whip-wielding Indiana Eddy once she put the phone down.

"Da@!#$?" She managed.

Eddy wasn't paying attention. He needed to get out and fast. Between the assassin (or whoever the @!#$ that was shooting) and the coming cops, there was a good chance he'd end up back in jail or dead in the next few minutes.

The porn shop had an upstairs apparently, and a back door. The front of the shop, which was now being blasted by freezing wind, led back out to 41st. Sirens blared, but no one was out front yet. Well, except for some d**n lunatic sniper somewhere.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

He found the hooker's ride, a tangerine-colored '91 ford escort soon enough.

Not far from the sirens.

In fact he could see a shop window that had obviously been smashed and shattered glass everywhere. Cops were coming from all sides, but midtown traffic is midtown traffic. Cops had trouble getting through to this particular corner. What looked like a SWAT van gave up on the driving and opened its back door. Predictably, SWAT guys pored forth and started running toward the--what was it?--Karl squinted--Oh sweet Lord, a porn shop.

At that moment Karl's phone rang. Or rather vibrated.

"OneShot? It's Teddy. You in the big apple, old timer? Haven't heard from you since that DC thing. How the hell are you, Hathaway? When I heard 'Karl with a k called', I said no @!#$ing way! What a surprise! Please tell me you're staying out of trouble."

Teddy had managed to include all three monikers, and got it all out before Karl could say hello.

That was Teddy. Bit unusual but a good agent. Loved his job.

Karl had saved the fledgling agent's life back during that DC thing, and ever since that day Teddy Best loved him some OneShot.

As he was about to answer Ted, something caught Karl's eye above, and he could make out what for 1 second anyway, looked like a guy dressed in a lime-green lycra outfit, wielding a rifle, duck back from the roof of the building on the opposite side of the porn shop, about 5 stories up.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Dan sighed through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tightly as a long list of expletives scrolled through his head. "Right," was all he managed to mutter.

He turned his head toward Phil. "Don't suppose there's anything to talk you outta this, huh?" he said hopelessly. "Can't pay you or offer - " He paused suddenly, his eyes locking on the window behind behind Phil the Thrill. He blinked and suddenly locked eyes with Phil again. "Offer to, uh, get your record cleared or something?"

Donovan swallowed hard. Could it work? It could work, right?

"No no no, baby," Ms. Winehouse pleaded.

"Look, be reasonable," he said, a little less hopeless than before. "We can both walk outta this decent if you play it right." He tried to gage Phil's reaction before his eyes darted behind him again, only for a moment. "Doesn't have to get messy."

THEN The view wasn't the best. Karl found a spot in the back. No way she'd see him there, but it made seeing her harder too. Up front, at the podium, the dean called out names. He'd already passed the letter H without saying her name, but Karl'd been expecting that. She's dropped the name Hathaway a couple years back. "Khanh Phuong," the dean said. Up front, several student applauded a bit louder, Katie's friends. Karl watched as his daughter stepped up to the podium, pretty as her momma, and twice as strong. Even if that strength had been turned against him all this time, Karl couldn't help but respect it. Katie - Khanh - accepted the diploma and the dean's handshake with her brilliant smile, then moves the tassel on her cap and marches off the stage to receive the hugs and congratulations of her friends. Karl stood and walked out the back.

NOW It doesn't take fifty years of experience to know a man on a roof with a rifle ain't a good thing. "Ted, shut up a sec," Karl says. Teddy's an okay guy, but he talks too much, and he needs a grown-up name. Or maybe run for president. "I'm lookin' for Katie. She's in trouble. But... right now... you know anything about some SWAT guys storming a shop at 7th and 41st? There's a man on the roof opposite. He's armed, looks like a serious piece of iron. Karl parks the old car, and gets out, phone still to his ear and he ambles toward the building. He talks as he goes, phone in his left hand, right free to draw, an automatic reflex. "I'm heading up." Karl's eyes search as he heads toward the building. He's forgotten to walk like an old man. He walks like a hunter.

He simply walked out the front door and made a hard right, hugging close to the wall. He had banked on the sniper expecting him to come out the back, and for the incoming cops to spook him. Time to follow through on that. He let the whip drop to the floor. Stealing was a sin, after all.

From the noise of the sirens, there would not be much time to get lost, so he turned towards the parking garage.

He saw the SWAT team members in the distance. Hopefully he looked like a simple rat. He carried no gun, and was nearly as pale as the snow. No one would mistake him for a terrorist. Pervert leaving a sex shop.

Entering he could see a security guy sitting behind a desk with a phone in his hand and a confused look on his face. An elevator bank behind the desk. Highest # was 7.

****

Phil the Thrill licked his dry, caked lips.

"Someone behind me?" Phil grinned. "Sorry, chum, that won't fly.

"Sorry, chum", he annoyingly said again, "Can't talk me out of it. Mr. Celophane gets what he wants. Before I shoot, I suppose I can let you in on a little secret though. Ever hear the name, Dr. Insano? No? Well, according to Mr. Celophane, there is a reckoning coming on all you people. All you freaks. And Mr. Celophane couldn't wait to get started...on you."

Phil made a sound half-way between a snarl and a snort. Stared at Dan, gun raised. Sig Sauer P229, not that the brand of the gun mattered.

****

No one even noticed Eddy as he quickly shuffled off. 'Course you'd figure one of the SWAT guys would not only notice but quickly apprehend him as a potential witness at the very least, but no. The Lord was on his side.

As Eddy shuffled toward the parking lot maze he suddenly spied an idling car. Dodge Intrepid. Inside sat two men, facing each other. The one in the passenger seat held a gun aloft.

Crime never stopped. Even with a potential "terrorist attack" a block away.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

He felt himself get warm, angry. The nerve. Killing a guy in his own car? And after more than one job well done? Ain't right. And especially sending a rat like the Thrill to do it - just dirty.

Donovan gripped the wheel tighter. Going out like this? It was too much. He let the wheel go, smashing a fist on the driver's door. "You know what, Phil?" he shouted, looking him in the eye. "You can take that lousy SIG, shove it up your ass, and empty the g*dd**n clip. I'm done! F*ck you, f*ck Celophane, f*ck Mister Insano, f*ck all of you!" He punched the steering wheel for good measure, a short bleat sounding from the Intrepid's horn. "You know what the problem is with this sh*thole of a city? It stinks. The whole thing reeks to high hell. You stink. The river stinks. Every hooker and john, every lousy back alley dumpster, every sewer drain, the whole f*cking thing, from Long Island to Staten, it stinks. I'm done."

"You wanna shot me, you prick?" He pointed a middle finger at his own chin. "Just do it. Pull the f*cking trigger already and do it."

"Be over by the time you get down here, Ted. Bring your chalk." The chalk they use to outline bodies. "You'll need it one way or th' other."

Karl takes a moment to look over the elevators, all waiting nicely on the ground floor. Then he heads for the stairs. Shooter would know not to stick himself in a box if he could help it.

"Ted, I'm goin' dark. Call ya when it's done." Karl hangs up without another word and sticks his phone in a pocket. It's already on vibrate so it won't make any noise.

As Karl enters the stairwell, out of sight of the security guard, he draws his Colt, flicking off the safety with a practiced gesture. There's already a round in the chamber, and seven more waiting behind it in the mag. Moving as fast as he can move without making too much noise, Karl heads up the stairs, clearing every landing before heading up.

An explosion of glass sounded behind the two. Dan expected to feel the rain of shards, but it didn't come. Phil the Thrill, apparently expecting the same, yelped and cringed, drawing his hands - and the gun - up towards his face.

That was all Donovan needed.

He threw his left hand around Phil's wrist and thrust it into the dash. A snap told him he broke the ulna, sending the gun into the seat. With his right hand he grabbed a handful of Phil's greasy mane and slammed his head into the dash. Then he did it again. And again.

"You," thunk, "stupid," thunk, "mother," thunk, "f*cker! You think you can pull a gun on me?!" A left fist to the jaw. "In my car?!" Another punch.

Right hand still holding Phil's increasingly bloodied face, Donovan grabbed the gun with his left and tucked the barrel under the rat's chin. "I am the Bloodhound, you son of a b*tch," he growled. "You don't sneak sh*t past me."

Dan wasn't a southpaw, but at point blank it didn't matter. Two shots, under the mandible so they bounced around inside the skull. Nice and clean.